Billy Summers (20 page)

Nine blocks.

He has done seven of those blocks, and the more modern part of the city is behind him, when he sees a city Transit van roll across an intersection ahead. Billy supposes it could be another DPW Transit, they all look the same, but it's moving slow, almost coming to a stop in the middle of West Avenue before speeding up again.

Billy has stepped into a doorway. When the van doesn't return, he starts walking again, always looking ahead for cover should it return. If they come back and see him, he's probably going to be dead. The closest thing he has to a weapon are the keys on his keyring. Unless, of course, Nick was playing straight with him all along. In that case he might get no more than a harsh tongue-lashing, but he has no intention of finding out. Either way, he has to keep going if he wants to get to the apartment building.

He pauses at the intersection, looking in the direction the Transit van went. He sees nothing but a few cars and a UPS truck. Billy trots across the street, head lowered, helpless not to think of Route 10 in Fallujah, also known as IED Alley.

He turns onto Pearson, jogs one final block, and there's his building. He has to cross the street to get to it, and he feels an insane itching on his right shoulderblade, as if someone—it would be Dana, of course—is zeroing the sight of a silenced pistol in on it. The near-constant wind that blows across the rubble-strewn vacant lot sends a coupon fold-in sheet from the local newspaper against one of his ankles and Billy gives a little skip of surprise.

He hurries along the frost-heaved walk of 658, then up the steps.
He looks over his shoulder for the Transit van, sure he'll see it, but the street is deserted. The sirens are all behind him, like the rest of his David Lockridge life. He tries one key and it's wrong. He tries another and that one is wrong, too. He thinks of the phone he could have lost and the laptop he could have lost, the way he lost the baby shoe.

Easy, he thinks. Those are your Evergreen Street keys, you never took them off your keyring, so chill out. You're almost home free.

The next one opens the foyer door. He steps inside and closes it. He looks out through a ragged mesh of lace curtain, maybe Beverly Jensen's work. He sees nothing, sees nothing, sees a crow land on some of the jagged rubble across the street, sees the crow take off, sees nothing, sees a kid on a trike with his mother walking patiently beside him, sees another sheet of newspaper go cartwheeling across the patched pavement, has time to think
the patched pavement of Pearson Street
, and then he sees the Transit van, going slow. Billy holds perfectly still. He can see through the mesh, but Reggie in the passenger seat can't see in. He might notice a sudden movement behind the lace curtain, though. Billy thinks the other one certainly would.

The Transit van moves on. Billy waits for its brake lights to flash. They don't, and then it's out of sight. He's not sure he's safe, but he thinks he is. Hopes. He goes downstairs and lets himself into the apartment. Not home, just a place to hide, but for the time being that's good enough.

The basement apartment's one window is covered by a length of burgundy cloth. Billy pushes it aside on its rod and sits down, thinking again that the apartment is like a submarine and this window is his periscope. He stays on the couch for fifteen minutes, arms folded across his chest, waiting for the Transit van to come back. It may even stop if Dana, who is no fool, decides the place might be worth checking out. Unlikely, when there are several rundown neighborhoods ringing the central city, but not impossible.

Billy has become more and more sure if they find him they mean to kill him.

Billy has no handgun, although it would have been simple enough to get one. There are gun sales in the area almost every day of the week, it seems. Not that he would have set foot in the building where the sale was being held when he could have bought a reliable piece in the parking lot for cash, no questions asked. Something simple, a .32 or .38 that could be easily concealed. It wasn't forgetfulness in that case, he just hadn't foreseen a situation where he might need one.

Although, he thinks, if you changed the plan without telling Nick, you must have foreseen
something
.

If they do come back—paranoid, but within the realm of possibility—what could Billy do about it? Not much. There's a butcher knife in the kitchen. And a meat fork. He could use the
meat fork on the first one in, and he knows that would be Reggie. The easy one. Then Dana would do him.

When fifteen minutes have passed and the bogus DPW truck hasn't returned, Billy decides they have either moved on to another part of the city, maybe to check out the house on Evergreen Street, or have gone back to the McMansion to await further orders from Nick. He closes the curtain, shutting out the view, and looks at his watch. It's twenty to eleven. How the time flies when you're having fun, he thinks.

Channels 2 and 4 are broadcasting the usual morning drivel, but with crawls about the shooting and the explosions running across the bottom of the screen. The real motherlode is Channel 6, where they have trashed their morning shows to go live at the scene. They've got the goods to do that because someone in their news department dispatched a crew to the courthouse to cover Allen's arraignment, and didn't send them to Cody when the warehouse fire broke out. It might have been neglect or outright laziness, you didn't wind up as the head of news in a small border south city like Red Bluff because you were Walter Cronkite, but whoever was in charge is going to look mighty wise in retrospect.

ONE DEAD, NO REPORTED INJURIES IN COURTHOUSE CATASTROPHE, reads the chyron at the bottom of the screen. The correspondent in the red dress is still doing her thing, although she's now doing it on the corner of Main Street, because Court Street has been closed off. It looks to Billy like the city's entire police force is down there, plus two forensics vans, one from the state police.

“Bill,” the reporter says, presumably speaking to the anchor back in the studio, “I'm sure there'll be a press conference later, but as of now we have no official word to pass on. We do have eyes on the scene, though, and I want to show you something that George Wilson, my incredibly brave cameraman, spotted just a few minutes ago. George, can you show that again?”

George raises the camera, centers it on Gerard Tower, then zeroes in on the fifth floor. There's hardly any shake in the image even at maximum zoom, and Billy can't help admiring that. Cameraman George stood his ground when the shit hit the fan, kept his head when those all about him were losing theirs, he got footage that will no doubt go national, and thanks to his sharp eyes he's probably just a step and a half behind the police at this point. He could have been a Marine, Billy thinks. Maybe he was. Just another jarhead bullet-sponge over there in the suck. For all I know, I could have passed him on what we called the Brooklyn Bridge, or hunkered down beside him in the Jolan graveyard while the wind blew and the shit flew.

The Channel 6 viewing audience, Billy among them, is treated to the image of a window with a shooter's loophole cut into it. The sunglare on the glass helps, just as Dana said it would.

“That is almost certainly where the shot came from,” the reporter says, “and we should know very soon who was using that office. The police may know already.”

The picture switches to Bill in the studio. He's looking suitably grave. “Andrea, we want to run your original story again, for people who may have just joined the broadcast. It's really extraordinary.”

They go to the video. Billy sees the SUV approaching with its blues alight. The door opens and the portly sheriff gets out. He has big ears, almost Clark Gable size. They seem to be anchoring his ridiculous Stetson. Andrea approaches, holding out the mic. The courthouse cops move in, but the sheriff holds up an imperious hand to stop them so she can ask her question.

“Sheriff, has Joel Allen confessed to the murder of Mr. Houghton?”

The sheriff smiles. His accent is as southern as grits and collard greens. “We don't need a confession, Ms. Braddock. We've got all we need to get a conviction. Justice will be done. You can count on that.”

The reporter in the red dress—Andrea Braddock—steps back. George Wilson centers his camera on the opening door of the SUV.
Out comes Joel Allen, like a movie star popping out of his trailer. Andrea Braddock steps forward to ask another question but backs off obediently when the sheriff raises his hands to her.

You'll never make the jump to the bigtime like that, Andrea, Billy thinks. You have to push, girl.

He leans forward. This is the moment, and it's fascinating to see it from another angle, a different perspective. He hears the shot, a liquid whipcrack of sound. He doesn't see the damage the bullet does, the editor in the Channel 6 video room has blurred it out, but he sees Allen's body fly forward and hit the steps. The picture joggles and dips as Cameraman George goes into his reflexive crouch, then steadies again. After holding on the body for a moment, the camera pans to the widebody cop who's looking up to find the source of the shot.

Then,
boom
! From up the street behind the Sunspot Café. There are screams. Wilson turns his magic eye in that direction to show fleeing pedestrians (Andrea Braddock among them, there's no way to miss that red dress) and the smoke billowing out from between the Sunspot and the neighboring travel agency. Andrea starts to come back—Billy has to give her points for that—and then the second flashpot goes off. She cringes, whirls in that direction, takes a look, then jogs back to her first position. Her hair is disheveled, her mic pack is hanging by its cord, and she's out of breath.

“Explosions,” she says. “And someone has been shot.” She gulps. “Joel Allen, who was to be arraigned for the murder of James Houghton,
has been shot on the courthouse steps
!”

Everything she's got to say from then on will be anticlimactic, so Billy zaps off the TV. By tonight there will be interviews on Evergreen Street with people he knew in his Dave Lockridge life. He doesn't want to see those. Jamal and Corinne won't allow cameras anywhere near the kids, but Jamal and Corinne would be bad enough. And the Fazios. The Petersons. Even Jane Kellogg, the boozy widow from down the street. Their anger would be bad, their
hurt and bewilderment worse. They'll say they thought he was okay. They'll say they thought he was nice, and is it shame he's feeling?

“Sure,” he tells his empty apartment. “Better than nothing.”

Will it help if Shan and Derek and the other kids find out that their Monopoly buddy shot a bad guy? It would be nice to think so, but then there's the fact that their Monopoly buddy shot the bad guy from cover. And in the back of the head.

He calls Bucky Hanson and gets voicemail. It's what Billy expects, because when UNKNOWN CALLER comes up on his screen (Bucky knows better than to put Dalton Smith in his contacts), Bucky won't answer even if he's there and thinks it's his client calling from a hick town in the border south.

“Call me back,” Billy tells Bucky's voicemail. “ASAP.”

He paces the shotgun-style apartment, phone in hand. It rings less than a minute later. Bucky doesn't waste time, and he doesn't use names. Neither of them do. It's an ingrained precaution, even if Bucky's phone is secure and Billy's is clean.

“He wants to know where you are and what the hell happened.”

“I did the job, that's what happened. He only needs to turn on the TV to see that.” Billy touches one of his back pockets with his free hand and feels a Dave Lockridge shopping list there. He has a tendency to forget them after he's finished Krogering.

“He says there was a plan. It was all set up.”

“I'm pretty sure a set-up is what it was.”

There's silence as Bucky chews this over. He's been in the brokerage business for a long time, never been caught, and he's not dumb. At last he says, “How sure?”

“I'll know one way or another when the man pays the balance. Or when he doesn't. Has he?”

“Give me a break. This thing only went down a couple of hours ago.”

Billy glances at the clock on the kitchen wall. “More like three, and how long does it take to transfer money? We're living in the computer age, in case you forgot. Check for me.”

“Wait one.” Billy hears clicking computer keys twelve hundred miles north of his basement apartment. Then Bucky comes back. “Nothing yet. Want me to get in touch? I've got an email cutout. Probably goes to his fat sidekick.”

Billy thinks of Ken Hoff, looking desperate and smelling of mid-morning booze. A loose end. And he, Billy Summers, is another.

“You still there?” Bucky asks.

“Wait until three or so, then check again.”

“And if it's still not there, do I email then?”

Bucky has a right to ask. A hundred and fifty thousand of Billy's million-five payday belongs to Bucky. A very nice bundle, and tax free, but there's a drawback. You can't spend money if you're dead.

“Do you have family?” In all the years he's worked with Bucky, this is a question Billy has never asked. Hell, it's been five years since he was face to face with the man. Their relationship has been strictly biz.

Bucky doesn't seem surprised at the change of subject. This is because he knows the subject hasn't changed. He's the one link between Billy Summers and Dalton Smith. “Two ex-wives, no kids. I parted company with the last ex twelve years ago. Sometimes she sends me a postcard.”

“I think you need to get out of the city. I think you need to catch a cab to Newark Airport as soon as you hang up.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Bucky doesn't sound mad. He sounds resigned. “Not to mention for royally fucking up my life.”

“I'll make it worth your while. The man owes me one-point-five. I'll see you get the one.”

This time Billy reads the silence as surprise. Then Bucky says, “Are you sure you mean that?”

“I do.” He does. He feels tempted to promise Bucky the whole fucking thing, because he no longer wants it.

“If you're right about the situation,” Bucky says, “you could be promising me something your employer doesn't mean to deliver. Maybe never meant to deliver.”

Billy thinks again of Ken Hoff, who could almost have PATSY tattooed on his forehead. Did Nick think the same of Billy? The idea makes him mad, and he welcomes the feeling. It beats hell out of feeling ashamed.

“He'll deliver. I'll make sure of it. In the meantime, you need to get over the hills and far away. And travel under a different name.”

Bucky laughs. “Don't teach your grampy how to suck eggs, kiddo. I've got a place.”

Billy says, “I guess I do want you to send a message through your email cutout. Write it down.”

A pause. Then: “Give it to me.”

“ ‘My client did the job and disappeared on his own, period. He's Houdini, remember, question mark. Transfer the money by midnight, period.' ”

“That it?”

“Yes.”

“I'll text you when I hear, okay?”

“Okay.”

He's hungry, and why not? He hasn't had anything but dry toast, and that was a long time ago. There's a package of ground beef in the fridge. He peels open the plastic wrap and smells it. It seems all
right, so he dumps half a pound or so into a skillet with a little bit of margarine. While he stands at the stove, chopping up the meat and stirring it around, his hand happens on that shopping list in his back pocket again. He takes it out and sees it's not a shopping list at all. It's Shan's drawing of her and the pink flamingo, once named Freddy and now named Dave, although Billy guesses it won't stay Dave for long. It's folded up but he can see the red crayon ghosts of the hearts rising from the flamingo's head toward hers. He doesn't unfold it, just sticks it back in his pocket.

He's laid in supplies for his stay and the cupboard beside the stove is full of canned goods: soup, tuna fish, Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Spam, SpaghettiOs. He takes a can of Manwich and dumps it over the simmering beef,
sploosh
. When it starts to bubble, he sticks two slices of bread into the toaster. While he waits for them to pop up, he takes Shan's picture out of his pocket. This time he unfolds it. Ought to get rid of this, he thinks. Tear it up, flush it down the john. Instead he folds it and puts it in his pocket again.

The toaster pops. Billy puts the slices on a plate and spoons Manwich over them. He gets a Coke and sits down at the table. He eats what's on the plate, then goes back for the rest. He eats that, too. He drinks the Coke. Then, as he's washing out the skillet, his stomach knots up and he starts making a chugging sound. He runs to the bathroom, kneels in front of the bowl, and throws up until everything is in the toilet.

He flushes, wipes his mouth with toilet paper, flushes again. He drinks some water, then goes to his periscope window and looks out. The street is empty. So is the sidewalk. He guesses it's often that way on Pearson Street. There's nothing to see but the empty lot with the signs—NO TRESPASSING, CITY PROPERTY, DANGER KEEP OUT—guarding the jagged brick remnants of the train station. The abandoned shopping cart has disappeared but the men's undershorts are still there, now caught on a bunch of weeds. An old Honda station wagon passes. Then a Ford Pinto.
Billy wouldn't have believed there were still any of those on the road. A pickup truck. No Transit van.